


on staying around

by WylderWolf



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Rimming, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-23 02:03:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6101185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WylderWolf/pseuds/WylderWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fourteen pages of loud fart noises.</p>
<p>(also there's some, like, emotions and stuff, and then they bump nasties. it's pretty rad.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	on staying around

“ _Jesus_ , are you serious?”

(haha, whoops.)

“One mission. You’d think you could hold out that long, right? A _single_ mission.”

(haha, oh god, this guy’s face is frozen at the _exact_ moment he realized there was gonna be a bullet lodged into his skull sweet _fuck_ is that ever priceless--)

Heavy sigh. Peter’s foot collides with the side of the dumpster with a loud metallic thud and Wade is still fingering the trigger of his pistol and trying his _very_ best to bite back a cackle because _god_ how is Peter not _seeing this_ , Wade knows he sees it but _seeing it_ is so much more important right now. You can still see the whites of the guy’s eyes. The mask is good for hiding his wide and unabashed grin but absolute shit at soundproofing. The air is rank and the idea of _post-mortem bowel movement_ flits into his brain and Wade loses it, fucking _loses it_ , and turns to face Peter with tear filled eyes. He jerks a thumb at the body and tried desperately to grasp at articulation. 

“Dude-- dude fucking-- Spidey-- I mean--”

(you’re a fucking mess.)

He knows. Stop judging, there is no circumstance in which this isn't fucking hilarious.

Peter scrubs his palms over his masked face and, while Wade can’t see his expression, he thinks the kid is dangerously close to breaking his foot on that dumpster or the merc’s face, so he stretches out of his crouch and holds up two peace-affirming hands. 

_Peter is not hurt. You are bleeding from the left calf and there is a definitive ache in your shoulder._

Coolio.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Got carried away. But, in my defense--”

He is cut off by the way Peter turns on one heel and starts to leave the alley, under some weird assumption that Deadpool won't cling to one freakish spider-foot for an entire web ride home. He skips behind him, a consistent stream still fluttering off his lips. Only a fraction remains an apology. 

“Okay,” Peter snaps, not even a block later. He still hasn’t even _tried_ to web it the fuck out of there. Wade is almost flattered. “I’m not gonna get into why _no one_ actually ‘has it coming,’ or whatever, I’m just gonna put it out there that a blood trail really doesn’t do any favors to the whole ‘vigilante’ thing tacked onto my name.” He sighs again and takes a sharp turn onto the next street, one Deadpool mirrors with a bit less grace.

Wade makes a dejected noise. “I don’t think you’re considering logical benefits through all that morality, buddy.”

“ _Logical benefits_?”

“The dude is off the streets. Or, okay, still on the street, in fact I think some of his brain matter is becoming a _part_ of the streets, but--”

“Stop.”

“Petey, we just witnessed a corpse _shit his pants_ , and you’re being a real fucking buzzkill about it.”

He can see the kid’s jaw clench through the mask. “Sorry I ruined you getting off on it. Are you leaving yet?”

“Go? Not with the assumption that it only takes a little low-grade creep murder and some poopy pants to get my groove goin’, now I’m just insulted.”

“Leave.”

They’re nearing Peter’s apartment. 

“Hah, yeah, about that--”

“You’re not staying here.”

Peter is still saying that when Wade enters the living room and collapses on the couch, ass firmly planted in his usual spot. 

This is a thing they do. 

“I swear to god, if you bleed on anything, you’re gonna be the first real blemish on my record.”

(so many dead girlfriend jokes you could make right now.)

Wade drapes his wounded leg off the couch and reclines back. Peter grabs a soda from the fridge and pads back into the living room, ripping his mask off along the way and tossing it onto the coffee table. He lifts Wade’s god leg from the available seat and settles himself into it, allowing only a brief dirty look at the merc when his leg is stretched back across Peter’s lap. He leans his head back, closes his eyes, and lets out a heavy breath.

“Rough day, pal?” Wade goads, wiggling his heel against Peter’s thigh.

The kid doesn’t even waste time rolling his eyes. Doesn’t even open them, actually. “Yeah. Been this giant pain in my neck I can’t get rid of. Like it’s following me or something.”

( _why_ why why couldn’t he have said pain in his _ass_ \--)

“Sure that pain wasn’t a little lower? Or should be? I could rub it out for ya, y’know, I _really_ only live to offer a helping hand--”

“You’re already the pain in my ass.”

Wade pumps his fists in the air with a loud, triumphant noise, and is too busy laughing to actually make the joke. He sits up a little, reaching out to cup a hand at the back of Peter’s neck and gently squeeze, only to be shoved off at first contact. Peter had the unperturbed look of a weary parent that is _way too_ used to this shit and his unruly son has started screaming and pulling his soiled training pants down at the park-- _again_ \-- and doesn’t react beyond a vague rebuff.

Wade then thinks about the implication of Peter being his daddy and makes no effort to hide his teeth biting down sharply into a gloved knuckle. 

Peter takes a sip of his soda and doesn’t really even spare a glance at Deadpool, just fixes his eyes on the blank television. Not so much like he’s riveted, but like no force of nature could push him to _move_ and turn it on.

“ _God_ can you maybe brood in your own space--”

“This is my space.”

“And leave me to get comfy or something? Can’t relax with adolescent crisis making the place smell like b.o. and angst.”

“Kinda sure that’s just you.”

“I wanna get out of this thing and _sleep_ ,” he whines.

Peter doesn’t move. He locks eyes with Deadpool, who is gesturing to the frayed and dirtied red suit, and says, flatly, “Do it then.”

Jaw tight, Wade breaks the gaze to look at his hands. Peter is sitting in front of him, blatantly mask-less, challenge posed in the air between them.

_You could do it, you know._

(fuuuuuuck that.)

“...I’ll go.”

Peter doesn’t respond. He just moves Deadpool’s leg off of him and moves silently into his own room, shutting the door behind him in a way that makes Wade feel like an entire trench was just dug in front of him. 

He doesn’t leave. He slips the mask off and keeps it tight in hand. The top piece of his suit comes next. He doesn’t remove it completely, leaving his arms in the sleeves so that just his back and the scarred edges of his shoulder blades are bared to the cool air. 

He knows no one will sneak a peek in the middle of the night. He trusts Peter that much.

This is a thing they do.

***

“You can’t actually eat ramen noodles and grape juice for every meal.”

Wade casts a glance over his shoulder at a pyjama-pants clad Peter, shaking his head dejectedly from his place over the stove. He’s poking at the softening noodles (don’t laugh, don’t laugh--) before he cracks two eggs into the semi-boiling water and lets out a long, drawn-out yawn. He takes a sip from the aforementioned grape juice, lifting his mask up just above his lips, out of range of Peter’s sight. The kid just pulls a chair out from the tiny kitchen table and sits, bedraggled and bleary-eyed.

“I can,” Wade says, reaching into the fridge to pull out the remainder of the previous morning’s cooked turkey sausage (“Holy shit, Spidey, broke as a damn joke but still going snobby with the food choices, fucking _iconic_ \--”) and dumps it into the concoction on the stove. “Not without Sriracha though, Petey. What the fuck.”

Peter snorts. “I don’t think Sriracha is gonna save whatever that is.”

“Still stands that you don’t have any.” He attacks the spice cabinet a little ruefully, somewhat triumphant that he knows exactly where it is. “Gotta kick this shit back old school. Are you like, a pussy, or do you just have flavor?”

“Not gonna dignify that.”

“As if I need dignity.” He dumps a gratuitous amount of cayenne pepper into the pot, following it up with garlic. It’s not hard to see Peter’s nose crinkle in disgust, and Wade thinks he would feel bad if it wasn’t kinda cute. He adds chili powder for effect. 

Wade eats directly out of the pot. He makes Peter a bowl that goes nearly untouched.

“Grand plans?” he says, muffled through a full mouth. The kid is nice enough to at least _partially_ hide his disgust. “Baddies to beat? Little old ladies to help across the road?” He takes another bite. “Hero stuff.”

Peter is, for the most part, stone-faced. “Dunno for sure. I haven’t heard anything from any leads, so it might just be a recon kinda night.”

“What, no special assignments from star-spangled super-daddy?”

“Oh my _god_ , don’t call him that.”

“Bet he’d like it.” Wade grins as he shoves the last of his breakfast into his mouth. “Y’know, always wondered about that guy. Too nice to be some kinda vanilla missionary motherfucker. You don;t get arms like that doing mattress push-ups. Think he’d be down for a private Q and A?”

Peter stands up and empties his bowl into the garbage disposal. “‘Scuse me, I’m gonna go puke.”

“Told you not to do that unless you let me watch.”

“ _Fuck_ , you’re gross.” He runs a hand through bed ruffled hair and walks heavy-footed toward the bathroom, and Wade hears the shower start.

“Have fun jerkin’ it to that mental image--!” he calls, and smiles wide at the frustrated noise he earns. It’s his favorite game. Peter looks good with a flushed face, and if Wade is strictly hands-off, he takes the liberty of collecting imagination material. Better, by far, than thinking of softer things, because that would border dangerously on tragedy. He refuses.

He’s watching Pitch Perfect when Peter reenters the room and, to the merc’s vague surprise, just reclaims his spot from the night before, with Wade’s legs draped over his own. He looks like his towel was made of one-ply toilet paper; damp splotches are growing over his turquoise t shirt across his chest and shoulders, his hair still dripping. He has almost bruise-like circles under his eyes, and his distaste for Wade’s cooking is starting t show in the sharp definition of his cheekbones. 

_Have you really been here this long?_

Wade thinks, with no small amount of affection, that this kid is a hot fucking mess. Not really his problem, he _has_ taken over domestic duties around the place (he looks fucking _killer_ in a pink apron over the suit and not a _damn_ person is going to contest that.) and it’s not his fault the kid is picky.

Deadpool would like the reader to know that really, really didn’t provide donuts the next morning. 

***

“ _Fuck_ \--!” He’s missing three fingers off of his right hand. “Oh, _fuck you_ , that stings fucking _dicks_ , god--”

The offender is laughing. Wade switches hands on his remaining sword and takes a less than graceful swipe, looking over his shoulder to bark, “Hey, can I fucking _end_ this cock stain, oorr--?”

A knife is thrown squarely into his chest and protrudes by the hilt from his sternum. 

“ _MotherfuckingBALLS_ \--”

“Doin’ alright, buddy?” Spider Man asks, swinging in a graceful arc around Deadpool and the crony-- Wade doesn’t really give a fuck where the guy is from-- and hits the assailant in the head with his heel. Wade is left, sword in-hand, staring as Peter makes quick work of tying up the third of three guys. The merc is scowling, rubbing his gushing knuckles, when Peter approaches him and lifts his mask so the Deadpool can see his wide grin. 

“See? No murder.”

“That was fucking boring.”

Peter wraps his fingers around the knife in Wade’s chest and rips it out unceremoniously, his smile turning coy when he hands it over. Deadpool wastes no time in turning the blade in his hand and launching it with a flick of his wrist into the third guy’s left ass cheek, and then he fucking laughs at Peter’s strangled noise.

“You’resofucking-- _insufferable_ \--jesus.”

It’s Wade’s turn to grin, even if Peter can’t see it. He moves quickly, shoving out his bleeding hand to grasp Peter’s hand between the two remaining fingers and bringing his face close. He ignores the loud, indignant cry. 

“Three words, my bestest _fucking_ amigo. Live. A. Little.”

The reader also _really_ needs to be assured that he wasn’t meant to pop a little half-mast boner at the daggerish look he gets in return. Peter looks more than annoyed.

Hands shove their way up to the sides of his neck almost before he can react, and his mask is lifted up to his chin. 

His intent isn’t to hurt Peter. 

Deadpool does, however, shove him away so hard that he hears the kid’s breath go out as he hits the opposite brick wall. A total jackass would have run away then and there. 

Wade is a total jackass, worthy of some kind of supreme douche-fuck award. 

He hates himself enough to sleep somewhere else that night.

***

Deadpool gently grasps the reader’s cheeks and looks deeply into their eyes and informs them that, while he is supreme douche-fuck of acid-enema town, he’s kinda in love with that kid and he _panicked_ , okay? You’ve gotta stop looking at him like that.

***

While he’s got you there, Deadpool licks the reader’s forehead for good measure and giggles.

***

He justifies that Peter has seen enough grisly carnage in his life. No one needs to be giving him goddamn horror movie nightmares.

Wade has been pretty dormant the past few days. Meaning he’s starting to become a permanent fixture on the roof of this building, weighing the pros and cons that sliding off would present. Momentary unconsciousness, but then again, scarred kids. 

HIs laugh when he hears a landing behind him is uncharacteristically mirthless.

Peter sits beside him without really saying anything. Wade doesn’t move, just keeps his eyes locked on the New York skyline without any hint of acknowledgement. Peter swings his legs a little, letting out a breath with a soft hum.

It takes a minute for Wade to make himself speak. He doesn’t want to do anything right now. Peter’s arm beside his is warm.

His mouth kicks in.

“So, hey, was I strong enough to dent a super hero?”

“That’s kind of a piss-poor way to ask if I’m okay.” There’s something tight in Peter’s voice.

“So yeah, I am.”

“I’m gonna push you off.”

Wade leans forward all too gladly. Peter reaches out and puts a hand on his chest to block him from going any further. 

“...You don’t trust me, huh?”

Wade scoffs. “As if you trust me.” He turns to face Peter. “Unless you got something you wanna tell me, babe, if you’re gonna go all rosey on me I should get a heads up to cancel my pining plans all next week, I’m sure the reader is getting sick of that bullshit anyway.”

Peter arches a brow, but otherwise ignores the ramble. His mouth is a flatline. Wade sighs, all heavy, and lets his shoulders fall a little, still trapped in the kid’s gaze. He’s starting to get uncomfortable.

“...Yeah, alright, I don’t trust you,” Peter says, very clearly studying Wade’s mask with something like hurt on his face. “Dunno if that’s on me, though.”

“Fuck, no. That’s definitely my deal there.”

“That’s fair.” He swallows and finally looks out on the skyline again, leaning back with his hands behind him. “Guess there’s not much of a point to working together any more, then. I have no clue who you are.”

Wade goes rigid, head snapping to attention, focus sharp on the kid and his dark circles and sharp cheekbones. “Woah-- okay-- I mean--” he founders, and Peter doesn’t react, and he’s left to slump again and slowly, thickly mutter “Yeah, I guess.”

It takes a moment for Peter to stand, and Wade feels like there’s some kind of irreversible bomb countdown in his chest. There is, truthfully, zero fucking way to win here. He’s gonna go either way. He’s biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood but he _still_ hasn’t moved, a light tremor starting to creak down his spine. 

He moves in a small eruption of nerves.

“Okay, okay. Hear me out. Five seconds to peek, and then never-fucking-again.”

Peter stops, wrist extended to leave, considers, then shakes his head slowly. 

“Thirty seconds to look, and I tell you my last name.”

Wade steps closer to him, fingers tracing hesitantly at his own throat and--fuck--he’s starting to feel sick. “Ten seconds to look, and I tell you my first.”

“Ten seconds, full name, and you can come sleep on my couch again.”

Peter’s hands push Wade’s away. The tear of velcro sounds like a commitment Wade can never take back, and then Peter is pulling the mask away _too fucking fast_ u, like he’s ripping off a band-aide.

_One_.

He looks disgusted. Hazel eyes rake down the horror movie creature like he’s about to be sick.

_Two_.

Wade cracks a half-smile, because he doesn’t know what the fuck else to do, and he needs Peter to stop going so blank.

_Three_.

“Oh.”

_Four_.

“Oh?” Wade responds, brow knitting and making the angry, puckered scars even more pronounced, the way he knows it will, and there’s a sick joy in watching Peter wince.

_Five_.

Wade has never had more condensed self-loathing that he does in this moment.

_Six_.

Peter _touches_ him. The pad of thumb is pressed daintily to the curve of Wade’s nose.

_Seven_.

(what the fuck.)

_Eight_.

He needs Peter’s face to stop moving. He prefers the blankness to this soften-furrow-soften thing he’s got going on.

_Nine._

Peter’s fingers are really soft. Wade doesn’t want to think about the last time someone touched his bare skin.

_Ten_.

“Alright, pay up,” he’s scrambling to get the mask back on and some empty part of him is waiting for the kid to turn tail and run in the same way every fiber of Wade’s being is pleading with him to do, like, ASAP.

Instead, Peter grabs the hand that is about to re-conceal his face.

“Hey, easy. More than ten seconds, I-- I get a penalty.” He jabs his free pointer finger into Peter’s chest.

“Parker,” he says, softly, _still_ not looking away. It feels like there are bubbles popping beneath Wade’s ribs.

“...Wade Wilson.” He takes his finger down in favor of extending that hand out to shake Peter’s. 

The kid nods slowly. Wade still hasn’t put the mask back on.

“You look as obnoxious as you are.”

“Ouch.”

Peter is the one to kiss him first.

***

They collapse onto the couch, like usual, only now they both take Wade’s spot, Peter with his head tilted back, Wade’s thin lips working along the underside of his jaw. He’s straddling Peter’s lap, this time, his entire body acutely aware of every minute motion and sound and breath. Peter’s eyes keep fluttering open under heavy lashes to look at Wade, working flush after flush out of him as deep-seeded embarrassment curls in the pit of his stomach. It mixes with months-old longing when Peter rests hands on his hips and coaxes him into a rocking motion, lips finding Wade’s again.

Wade runs fingers through Peter’s hair, taking careful note of the little shiver it gains him, grinding down experimentally into his lap, not quite meaning to moan openly into his mouth.He doesn’t mind so much when Peter takes the opportunity to run a tongue softly along his lower lip, leaning u into Wade and letting out a light hum.

He’s confident in a way that has Wade reeling, especially when he realizes he’s walking down a dangerous path to being super fucking dominated, and he’s not positive how much more emotional bullshit he can handle today. A little of this ideal flies out the window when Peter palms his ass, none too gently, and makes another noise slip out of his mouth. He retaliates by clasping a full lower lip between his teeth and becoming pleasantly surprised when Peter all-out _whines_.

“Okay, okay,” Wade says, pulling back a little, chest heaving. His hands are running up and down Peter’s chest and making his eyes go all dreamy. “What’s the comfort level here?”

Peter’s hips are still moving slowly, trying to maintain some small amount of friction. “I want you,” he says bluntly, an edge of impatience in his voice. 

“Right, fucking _awesome_ , what’re you cool with, though?”” Wade is trying _desperately_ to keep his head clear enough for this. Peter’s brow knits like he hasn’t actually thought that far ahead, and he’s glad he asked, because there’s a few beats where Peter chews on his lip and considers.

“...I wanna fuck you, I don’t know.” He sounds irritated, rushed.

Wade has to keep himself from wincing. “Dunno about that tonight, pal. That whole, uh, emotional-tax-you-just-saw-my-filet-o-Wilson-face-and-I’m-hella-vulnerable thing is going on. Not the best time to put a dick in my butt.”

(i had a burrito today, buddy. we aren’t gonna repeat the first part of this fanfiction.)

Peter chooses _now_ to look bashful. He tells Wade some cliche bullshit everyone has read before about how he’s never done this, and Wade has to bite back something between a snort and a groan.

“I figured. I’ve got an idea, but only if you’re cool with it.”

When he tells him what he’s going to do, Peter’s toes curl.

His pants and underwear are thrown off unceremoniously before Wade moves him into a laying position, pulling him by his hips until his knees are hooked over Wade’s shoulders and the curve of his ass rests on the merc’s chest. Wade reaches up a cautious hand and palms slowly at Peter’s dick, hearing a long, full sigh in response. He purses his lips a moment before licking an experimental stripe, and this time, the sigh becomes a sharp gasp. 

Wade smiles, slow and devious. 

Peter uses his leverage on Wade’s shoulders to rock back against his mouth, panting out sobs each time Wade’s tongue circles him. Each gentle dip becomes punctuated with a wet kiss, and then the process repeats.

Rimming an ass virgin isn’t actually an easy feat. Wade has to grip tight to Peter’s ever-moving hips and bob down with more force than he expected before his tongue actually slips inside, and when he does, Peter actually moans. Loudly.

Wade laughs softly. “Who’s the talker now?”

“Shut up.” Peter has reached up to idly palm himself. “I was enjoying the silence.”

“Wasn’t silent from where I’m standing.” He smirks. “I need more, though.”

“Wh--?” Peter groans when Wade lowers his legs down and gets up. He covers his red face and mutters “Night stand, middle drawer.”

He’s back quickly, re positioning Peter again so that his head rests on the arm of the couch. The kid is looking up at him, openly staring again, and Wade’s focus drops long enough to remember how exposed he is, even being fully-clothed. Peter sits up, cups his face, and brings him down to kiss again until Wade is shaking, taking a moment to bow his head Peter’s chest and collect himself. He coats his fingers, reveling in the squeak he gets at the first gentle intrusions.

Peter takes fingers like a fucking champ, bucking back and demanding more with each breath. 

Wade isn’t sure how he ended up with his back against the cushions, but at this point he’s so achingly hard that he really doesn’t give a shit.

“Hey,” Peter says, wobbling a little bit above him, face flushed, eyelids heavy. “Hey, pretty boy, look.”

This is what verbally being punched in the gut feels like Wade’s dick _throbs_ , just before Peter starts lowering himself onto it.

Wade is a fucking mess, a terrible, shaking, clutching mess. He babbles nonsense out at Peter, voice high pitched, thrilled when the sentiment is returned with full force.

“God, fuck, fuck, Peter-- you. God, fuck, you feel so--”

Peter laughs shakily and braces his palms against Wade’s chest, moving with no real rhythm but _Jesus_ he’s warm, he’s gorgeous, Wade is falling apart at the seams. 

They’re reduced to incoherent sounds. There are bright pink finger marks on Peter’s hips and thighs, his mouth open and moaning, his eyes determinedly open and he chokes around the words “Wade, Wade, you’re so beautiful.”

Wade shifts them both so that he can sit up and kiss Peter until his lips are bruised, fingers knotting and pulling at his hair, hips moving in tandem with his, each breath moving in and out with helpless sounds. He shouldn’t be this rough with the kid. He’s not coherent enough to register that.

He comes with “ _thank you, thank you_ ,” fluttering off his lips, and he collects himself enough to wrap his fingers around Peter, finishing him off in a few twisted strokes. 

They’re both trembling. Wade doesn’t know how to react to the way Peter isn’t running yet, but rather is settling down into him and rubbing aimless patterns into his mutilated chest.

This is new. He remembers it from a past life, but it’s nothing he’s used to or deserves _now_.

“Does this count as my penalty?” Peter asks thickly.

For the time being, Wade decides to leave it alone.

***

The reader should know that, even without the suit, Deadpool still looks _fantastic_ in a pink apron. In fact, he looks especially fantastic in a pink apron and _nothing else._

***

Okay, no, he’s not done. Go to sleep and stop reading porn, Christ, what are you, this is just sad.

***

_Sweet dreams._

_-D.P._

**Author's Note:**

> woah!! where the seething _fuck_ have i been for, like, eight months?
> 
> horrendously, cripplingly depressed, that's where.
> 
> (this is also mostly a warm-up for these characters, as i've never written either of them before. ryan reynold's cock is my new muse. stroke my ego, yknow, if you wanna.)


End file.
